


In a Room Full of Art, I'd Still Stare at You

by quixoticquest



Series: Ripped at Every Edge but You're a Masterpiece [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A concept, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Artist AU, Artist Bill, Bottom Stan, Bottoming from the Top, Established Relationship, Exhibitionsm meets Voyeurism, M/M, Moving In Together, Oneshot, Porn with some plot, Top Bill, Topping from the Bottom, figure model stanley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15168719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticquest/pseuds/quixoticquest
Summary: There was Stanley Uris by the pageful, wrought in pencil and pen and charcoal. There were his eyes, and his mouth, and his hair, and his face in front and profile. If Bill wasn’t dating him, he might have been mortified by the obsession. One scathing word from Stan, and he knew he’d stop right then and there. But none were scathing. Only curious and awed, sometimes humble and self-deprecating. As a figure model at the art school, Stanley was well-versed in the art ofbeingart. But Bill caught moments no other student would ever witness, and he treasured them selfishly.





	In a Room Full of Art, I'd Still Stare at You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a dumb idea I had, I'm not sure it's all it's cracked up to be but hey I hope you like it.

One hot and sunny Saturday afternoon, Bill Denbrough strained, panting and flush with sweat, unbelievably tense - only to groan out his immense relief when he finally surrendered one last box to the floor of Stanley Uris’s apartment. 

“I’ll ss-start unpacking,” Bill huffed from the living room, rising to press his hands into his hips, as if that would straighten out his spine. “Get ss-s-some of this out of the way for you.”   
  
“That would be wonderful.” From the kitchen, Stanley didn’t look at him, hard at work stirring lemonade powder into a pitcher of ice water. “Take your time, I’ll be there in a minute.”   
  
Knowing better than to distract Stan from a task, no matter how trivial, Bill took custody of a smaller box, and turned for the bedroom, looking around the place as if this was his first time there, and not his hundredth.   


Two things made Stanley’s apartment less than perfect. First, its distance from Bramhall College of Art. By car it was no trouble, but without one of his own, there was no guarantee Bill could hitch a ride all four days of the week he had class. That left him with a fifteen minute walk both ways, provided the traffic lights were kind to him. He was looking to get his old bike out of the garage at his parents’ house to make the journey more manageable.   
  
Second was the stairs. Bill had grown accustomed to a two-flight walkup in the last couple years at the apartment he shared with some of his friends. At school, he was subject to three flights, depending on his class and what day it was. But none of that held a candle to Stanley’s six story climb. All narrow, shallow steps, decades old, and an ordeal for the thighs, with no elevator to speak of. Carrying boxes up from the parking lot for several trips was as excruciating as it gets.

And yet the very prospect of living there with Stan, which had now become a reality, was more than enough for Bill to take those imperfections with a grain of salt. 

Though it probably would have suited him to start using  _ ours _ instead of  _ his. _   
  
Unpacking his clothes would have been a better start, but those boxes were buried under books and art supplies, given that they had been the first to come up. Bill dropped his load on the bed so he could sit for a while, and scooted up onto the neat comforter to pry open the cardboard flaps. Inside was a stack of sketchbooks, topped with his pencil case. Taking that, and his most recent sketchbook out, he couldn’t help flipping open to peruse, even knowing exactly what he’d find. It was an obvious procrastination, as if he were twelve years old again, willfully distracted from cleaning his room. His mother wasn’t around to pound on the door, but that didn’t mean Stanley wouldn’t sigh and roll his eyes at the sight of him doing nothing.    
  
The first few pages in the worn, spiral-bound book were aimless figure sketches, and hard-lined doodles, evidence of Bill’s growing artistic frustration. But soon after, his magnum opus - by virtue of the fact that it was his most common subject.    
  
There was Stanley Uris by the pageful, wrought in pencil and pen and charcoal. There were his eyes, and his mouth, and his hair, and his face in front and profile. Sometimes his body from behind, or the side, forms becoming steadier as the artist learned the shape. Hasty scribbles conveyed candids, when Stan wasn’t looking and Bill couldn’t bear for him to move. Either the light was just right, or his expression was beautiful and intriguing, so on and so forth. One sketch was particularly careful, almost finished, of Stan asleep on the couch in the living room, his hands clutched around a remote tucked under his chin. Ink over graphite.   
  
If Bill wasn’t dating him, he might have been mortified by the obsession. One scathing word from Stan, and he knew he’d stop right then and there. But none were scathing. Only curious and awed, sometimes humble and self-deprecating. As a figure model at the art school, Stanley was well-versed in the art of  _ being _ art. But Bill caught moments no other student would ever witness, and he treasured them selfishly.    
  
Bill snapped back to the present with the chill of cold glass against his arm, pulled away from grimacing at an attempt in colored pencil. Glancing  up, he found Stan holding out a cup for him to take, filled with pale yellow liquid, bobbing with ice cubes. His expression was apathetic, much like the ones on the pages between Bill’s fingers.    
  
“This isn’t unpacking,” Stanley said frankly, a glass of his own held close to his chest.   
  
Bill chuckled. In the same breath he accepted his lemonade, he shut his sketchbook with a resounding clap. “Sorry. I got distracted.” Taking a slow sip was the best idea he’d had yet, offering fleeting reprieve from the sweat clinging to his brow, and the poor air conditioning circulating throughout the apartment. Exertion and summertime heat made an awful couple.   
  
Lips burning with the sensation of ice, Bill set his drink on the nightstand and picked up his sketchbook. He made a show of slipping it into one of the drawers in the drafting desk they had set up yesterday. Most of his furniture, like his bed and dresser, didn’t need to come, but every artist needed a proper space to do their work.   
  
“You have so many things,” Stanley said, turning to gaze out into the living room. To his credit, even the view to the front door was blocked by - you guessed it - cardboard boxes. “And it’s all art supplies. You have more pads of paper than shirts.”   
  
“Yeah.” Bill returned to the sketchbooks, this time fitting a stack of four in his arms. “The worst p-part is I don’t even use it all. A lot of it’s for school. I have ss-so many canvases I won’t use, I’m not good at p-painting.”   
  
“Well, I liked your landscape from this semester. And I hate paintings.”   
  
“Thank you,” Bill murmured. Then, after a beat: “But it was a still life.”   
  
Stan pinned him with a particular look, but the smile Bill imagined him sporting was hidden behind a glass of lemonade. The artist smiled, easy as ever in the presence of his muse, and tucked away his armload. 

It didn’t take long to fall into a rhythm of retrieving boxes and putting items away. Bill got distracted from the sketchbooks when his clothes came in, admittedly less important in comparison to having his wardrobe available to him. Soft flannels and worn jeans slipped in perfectly beside Stanley’s pressed button-downs and stiff khakis, creating sharp contrast as much as delightful imagery.   
  
For someone who offered help, Stan eventually abandoned Bill to sit pretty (and boy, was he pretty) at the edge of the bed while, his boyfriend wandered in and out with boxes. At first, Bill was content to leave him there, helpful all on his own, because he was nice to look at. If Stan hadn’t offered his home for what may be the rest of their lives, it would have been all the motivation Bill needed to work alone.    
  
But he was having terrible trouble putting together a floor lamp, and the instructions said it was a two-person job.   
  
“How long does it t-take to drink lemonade?” he asked in his best attempt at wry, shuffling to stand with a tangle of parts at his feet.   
  
“As long as it takes you to oggle your drawings,” Stan uttered, as Bill came to a stop in front of him. “And you ought to finish yours, or your ice will melt.”   
  
The artist grinned, despite the heat creeping into his face. He thought he might have gotten used to the Stan’s reactions to his fixation, at this point, but Bill knew the pulse-rushing response would never go away.    
  
Maybe because Stan managed to inspire that feeling all on his own.   
  
“I like to p-pace myself,” Bill replied.   
  
“Then just sit with me.” Stan tipped his head back, left with a clump of melting cubes at the bottom of his glass. “It doesn’t have to get done right this minute.”    
  
Bill held his tongue on any further remark, since the option he was presented with was so much more appealing - especially after a sweltering couple hours hauling his things up six flights of stairs. 

Rather than turn around so his rear could make contact with the mattress, Bill curled forward slowly, opting to hitch his knee up onto the comforter. He leaned close, watching Stan tilt away to keep him in sight.   
  
“What are you doing?” he murmured incredulously, offering calculated attention from those amber eyes.    
  
“Sitting with you,” Bill stated - half-lying, he supposed. There wasn’t much difference between sitting and kneeling anyway, and his intentions had nothing to do with it.   
  
The artist tipped himself closer still, but before he could make contact, Stan closed the distance instead. Their lips connected soundly, rivalling the solace of a seat  _ and _ lemonade, without question.    
  
Bill splayed his hands in the give of the mattress, perched awkwardly, but unwilling to break and adjust. The indulgent slide of their mouths pinned him there, languid and encompassing as a hand lifted against his cheek. Bill couldn’t even pretend to care about unpacking at that moment.   
  
After a few heartbeats, Stan tilted away, swelling with a breath more stolen than retained. It was too close to see much, their noses bumping together as Stan’s thumb stroked fond circles. Bill could imagine the sight anyway. He had witnessed it enough times. The beginning of a pink flush against pale, smooth skin; the crisp flecks of gold threatening to melt in brown eyes; bowed lips parted every so slightly. Evidence of and temptation toward escalation, all at once.   
  
All that Bill could have, he realized, maybe for the first time. Not as if he couldn’t believe Stan was his - though he doubted the reality of his beautiful muse choosing him far too often - but as if he couldn’t believe this home was his, now. In awe of  _ Ours _ forever. 

Gorgeous Stanley, meticulously careful in everything he did. A milestone like this threatened to be out of character. Bill knew what Stan came from, and what he sacrificed on a daily basis to be with him. Moving in together was a huge step (as if he were just realizing, and hadn’t been mulling it over for months prior!).   
  
It was entirely likely that he had just worked himself up, too. Stanley had that effect on him.   
  
“Are you sure about this?” Bill whispered, more breath to his voice than he meant to convey. Maybe he had worked himself up, but he wanted to be certain.   
  
“Of course,” Stan answered, effortlessly. As if reading his mind. Bill wondered if he had asked this exact question before.   
  
Stan leaned further back, blessing Bill with true sight, nothing left to the imagination. The artist had seen that expression in all stages of grief, but now, it was nothing but confident.   
  
“I will always be sure about you,” Stan said, killing doubt with a single sentiment. Without another word, he surged forward, and Bill steeled himself for a second, amazing kiss.   
  
Nothing could keep him from gliding against the seam of his boyfriend’s soft mouth, gasping as Stan parted his lips against him, skin tingling. Pulled closer by insistent hands, Bill’s peculiar position couldn’t hold him up any longer, and his knee slipped, tipping him down and forward, flush with Stanley’s body bent beneath him. Hands free then, he had no qualms about tracing Stan’s waist, firm beneath his slacks.   
  
There was the sound of hard glass connecting with the solid wood of a nightstand, drinks discarded to be forgotten altogether, and before Bill could fret about coasters, Stan’s tongue swept into his mouth, taking all attention with it. Damn unpacking, Bill decided then. He had all summer.

As familiar with each others’ bodies as they were with their own, they made quick work of clothes and shoes, falling to the floor beside abandoned boxes. The comforter bunched up stubbornly beneath them, but it was too hot to even consider getting under, already warm to the point of discomfort against bare skin. Bill thought, if he were blind, he might have no trouble picturing Stan, as his roaming hands brought to mind all the facets of form that he learned and committed to paper. Distracted enough by gossamer skin that Stan had no trouble pushing off with his heel to drop Bill against the bed unceremoniously.

All of a sudden empty-handed, left cool and damp where a lithe body had once been, Bill watched Stanley shift away to rifle through the drawer in his nightstand. It didn’t take a genius, just an experienced boyfriend, to know that was where Stanley kept his lube, like how he kept some in his car and in Bill’s old apartment, now tucked away in some box or another. Prepared and organized as ever, Bill thought fondly.

He couldn’t think for very long though, before Stan returned to overwhelm him again, lifting himself over to straddle Bill. One more fervent kiss descended over Bill’s lips and trickled down to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his chin, under his jaw where every touch set off fireworks in his nerves. He clutched at Stan desperately, lulled by the smell of shampoo in bronzy curls, but his boyfriend lifted away far too soon.

But then Bill had his very own front row seat to watch Stanley finger himself open. The sweet scent of the lubricant mingled faint in the air, over the tinges of sweat saturating the clean smell of the bedroom. Sight was better than smell at this point, though, with Stan bent over him, expression tensing with his own efforts, lips bitten and noises restrained. Too late at this point, Bill wished he had taken the initiative, stuck there staring in admiration as his erection bobbed, ignored, out of reach.

When Stanley had prepped himself adequately, there was little Bill could do but shift up higher against the headboard, hunching close to get his hands wherever he could on his gorgeous boyfriend. It was almost futile, with Stan set to task and inching lower down Bill’s torso, but he managed to get his fingers around the dip of that firm waist in time for the head of his dick to make tantalizing contact between soft ass cheeks. Even with all the preparation and breathless praise in the world, nothing could ever prepare him for the very moment his cock squeezed into that delicious vise of heat, leaving Bill more engulfed than he deserved to be, reeling each and every time.

He swore, somehow sounding affectionate as Stan eased lower and lower until his butt was flush with the curve of Bill’s hips. That beautiful muse carried all the grace of a predator, and only the twitch of his brow, the clench of his teeth, the mess of his hair gave any indication that he was just as taken as Bill.

When he started to move, Bill had to switch his grip to the comforter, always scared to bruise soft flesh, no matter how many dry looks he received in response. Arched against, the bed, he could offer little in the way off assistance, except his desperate attempts not to tense up his legs. Bill chased every thrust with his pelvis, but Stan was at the helm, and he looked incredible doing it.

Every bounce fluffed the swoop of his curls, glinting gold in the orange sunlight coming through the window at this hour. Sometimes he tipped his head back, sometimes forward, but the best was when he managed up and still enough to look Bill in the eye. Caramel eyes blown black under the dim of hair and arousal, lips rubbed red and rounded around groans and expletives - better yet, Bill’s name. Even the flare of nostrils around every harried breath was its own kind of stunning, and the whole fucking visage was completely incomparable to any other manner of Stanley Uris.

Suddenly, Bill was struck with an idea. No, a need. A frantic need, and his hand shot out where he’d left the box of sketchbooks. He had to tear his gaze away, not wanting to knock anything over, but out of the corner of his eye he managed to glean Stan’s confused, screwed up expression, enough to still his eager movements. Which was more than enough incentive for Bill to hurry, hand fumbling against the edges of the cardboard.

“What are you doing?” Stanley demanded, voice barely there.

“Nothing.” Bill didn’t mean to lie, but he didn’t have the breath to speak, let alone explain.  _ Finally _ his hand closed around a book, and his pinky caught his pencil box, all but launching them toward his chest. “J-juh-juh-just keep going, p-p-please!”

All that had to be enough for Stanley to connect the dots, and as he brought himself down on a heart-stopping slap of flesh, he puffed out a groan that sounded more annoyed than aroused.

“Are you serious?”

“I have to, y-yuh-you’re breathtaking.” Bill was going to give himself a hernia, tensing and straightening so he could toss open his sketchbook and balance it against his arm, prying open the pencil box with his other hand to collect a stump of charcoal, smearing black as his hand pressed into the paper.

Maybe the rush of a compliment was enough to sway Stanley. Despite a displeased noise, his expression softened, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Before Bill could resort to shameless begging (and he wasn’t above it), Stan lifted himself up, and dropped again with all the energy he was worth. Bill nearly dropped his charcoal.

He got to work, struggling through every snap of hips to scribble out Stanley’s form. The strokes weren’t nearly as strong or careful as Bill was capable of, but he wasn’t capable of very much at that moment except moaning and gasping and trying not to cum too soon. Speckles of charcoal and streaks of gray littered the paper, and without an eraser or even a desire for one, Bill was stuck with these hasty marks.

Stan came to fruition under his hand, much blockier, and more abstract than usual, but gorgeous in form all the same. The scrape of the charcoal as Bill’s arm swooped to capture the most important details wasn’t clean, or refined, but for this moment it was perfect and all Bill needed.

As Stanley grew more restless, so did Bill, as if his work were an exam and there were thirty seconds on the clock. Glancing between the real thing and his half-assed reproduction was more effort than it was worth, but he was determined, scratching in the curtain of curls with little more than a collection of black coils. The overlap of black lines created movement and desperation that almost paralleled reality, in that exact moment.

Then, Stan froze, trembling around Bill’s cock in such a way that he had no choice but to give up his attempts, awash with sensation. He lifted his sketchbook out of the way just in time for Stan to paint his belly in hot white, shoulders heaving with every breath. Sweat glistened on his brow, his expression vulnerable and blissed out for a beautiful few seconds.

Bill yanked open the next page so hard he almost ripped the last one, and managed to concoct a poor imitation of what was right in front of him before finally giving out. Stan sat flush against his dick for the heady, explosive climax, squeezed against comforter and pillows as if he might sink in at any moment. Bill reduced to nothing but a puddle of his former self, his own sketchbook strewn to the side, pencils and charcoal sticks scattered around it.

“You’ve already stained my bed with charcoal?” Stan huffed, sounding unbelievably exhausted as he extricated himself, grimacing at the mess he himself left all across Bill.

“It w-wuh-was really im-p-p-puh-portant,” Bill wheezed, unable to keep a lazy smile from spreading across his face. Before Stan could get too far, he reached out, fingers grazing a supple cheek. They left black prints in their wake, the closest Bill would ever get to his drawings looking just like his muse in real life.

***

“Excuse me, are you Bill Denbrough?”

Drawn from staring at Stanley, who had managed to situate himself in the furthest corner of the room, Bill’s eyes flickered to the older man addressing him. He had seen him around school, but whether he was a professor or not, he wasn’t sure.

“That’s me.”

“You’re sketches are exquisite.” The man swept a hand toward the space that had been delegated to Bill in the gallery space. With dozens of other students’ work up, he hardly expected to get picked out like this - and it was the third stranger’s compliment of the night.

“These, specifically,” he continued, gesturing to the collection of harried, dark drawings that made Bill’s ears warm. “They’re so kinetic, rhythmic. Almost intimate, I think they’re fascinating.”

“Thank you,” Bill recited, smiling politely despite his quietly contained bemusement. Artists were so hit or miss with what they found interesting. If only this guy knew what he was looking at.

“I have to ask what your method was. I can’t imagine what sort of process you used.”

Unwilling to disclose that, Bill laughed. “I decided not to give th-that away. J-juh-just know, they’re very inspired.”

“Well, if you’re willing to sell any of them, or do commissions,” the man handed Bill a business card, “I think I know some people who would love to own a piece like this. Myself included.”

Bill nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

The man moseyed away soon after, and the artist let his gaze wander back to his boyfriend. The rest of their friends had managed to disperse enough around him to make eye contact, and Bill grinned as Stanley separated himself from the rambunctious group, striding confidently.

“You know, I was really hoping your work would stay normal,” Stan muttered, though his expression remained good-natured. “That you’d stick to realism. You’re very good at it. I’m not sure I want to be the subject of postmodernist experimentation.”

“All you have to do is ss-s-say you don’t w-want me to draw you anymore,” Bill replied, slipping a hand around Stanley’s arm.

His muse simply huffed, jaw squared and stubborn as he fought not to smirk, easily the most exquisite thing in the entire room.


End file.
